


american stories burning before me

by voxofthevoid



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Mind Control, Non-Consensual Blood Drinking, Non-Graphic Violence, Past Peggy Carter/Steve Rogers, Past Steve Rogers/Sam Wilson, Predator Prey Dynamics, Vampire Steve Rogers, Vampire/Thrall, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-23
Updated: 2020-09-23
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:55:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26604817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voxofthevoid/pseuds/voxofthevoid
Summary: Mid-December, a man tries to kill Steve and fails.When it’s over, there’s a hole in Steve’s lungs and blood on his bed and a masked man with blank blue eyes pinned under his bulk. There’s a mind that breaks open for him and a throat that arches in silent submission, and there’s blood that tastes like nothing that’s ever touched Steve’s tongue, spring and winter in bursts of red.It’s been a long time since Steve wanted to keep a human—centuries since the nights spent stalking Sam through the shadows of dark alleys and decades since the day Peggy realized what he was and drew a gun on him.Steve runs his knuckles down his killer’s stubbled face, flushed with borrowed life as his flesh knits back together.He’s a sweet boy. There are holes in his mind, and they mold themselves swiftly, almost willingly in the shape of Steve. Someone was there before him, that much is clear, but it’s not the foggy haze of a vampire’s thrall. There’s an elegance to that, some subtlety, but this is like someone took an iron rod and tore large, messy grooves through the man’s brain.-Some meetings are inevitable.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 141
Kudos: 736





	american stories burning before me

**Author's Note:**

> This story gave me the most gruelling experience in killing my darlings. I scrapped 10k of it. And unlike when this usually happens, the final version has nearly none of that 10k. RIP. 
> 
> This one’s weird. Vampire morality, entry-level monsterfucking, etc etc. Read the tags! If you’ve got questions, I’ve got a [tumblr here](https://voxofthevoid.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Art by the wonderful kocuria—she’s got more stuff on [her tumblr](https://kocuria.tumblr.com)!

* * *

* * *

Mid-December, a man tries to kill Steve and fails.

When it’s over, there’s a hole in Steve’s lungs and blood on his bed and a masked man with blank blue eyes pinned under his bulk. There’s a mind that breaks open for him and a throat that arches in silent submission, and there’s blood that tastes like nothing that’s ever touched Steve’s tongue, spring and winter in bursts of red.

It’s been a long time since Steve wanted to keep a human—centuries since the nights spent stalking Sam through the shadows of dark alleys and decades since the day Peggy realized what he was and drew a gun on him.

Steve runs his knuckles down his killer’s stubbled face, flushed with borrowed life as his flesh knits back together. This one isn’t human, but he’s not quite anything else either, in spite of the mind that opened for Steve easier and sweeter than a human mind should have.

The decision is easy, in the end.

-

He’s a sweet boy, Steve’s killer.

There are holes in his mind, and they mold themselves swiftly, almost willingly in the shape of Steve. Someone was there before him, that much is clear, but it’s not the foggy haze of a vampire’s thrall. There’s an elegance to that, some subtlety, but this is like someone took an iron rod and tore large, messy grooves through the man’s brain.

Whatever nurture did once upon a time, nature has since ground Steve into a creature of cool apathy. He knows, distantly, that it’s cruel, what has been done to this man. And it is a miracle, an impressive one, that there is a _man_ under all the damage. But the only solace he can offer are his cold hands on heated skin and teeth that numb that broken mind to anything but pleasure.

His killer takes to it easily, pliant under Steve’s touch, throat bared eagerly for his mouth. He makes the softest sounds, moaning like he can’t help it but is scared of the noise, trembling against Steve as he struggles to keep still. Steve likes it, likes him, and he still hears Sam’s warning in his ears, a curse that Steve will ruin everything he touches, but his killer doesn’t seem like he’ll mind if he’s ruined.

Sometimes, in rare moments of almost-clarity, he looks at Steve like he’ll welcome it.

-

They come for him.

Steve doesn’t know who _they_ are. He never asked his killer who sent him. They don’t talk much. And now, he’s sleeping off the effects of Steve’s teeth; because his killer heals easy, Steve takes too much and watches the man collapse into deep bouts of slumber as his body regains its flush. So, he’s alone against the armed, black-clad men who pour in through his front door, but that’s fine, especially when it’s clear that all of them are human, not at all like his killer.

Steve leaves one alive, enthralled and bound in the basement.

Body disposal is the most uncomplicated part of it all. Being a vampire, one learns to leave no trace.

-

His killer’s awake when Steve comes back, lying ramrod straight on the bed, eyes wide and on the ceiling. It means he’s had a nightmare. Steve has had him for only a week, but he feels like he knows all there is to know about this one, likely because there’s preciously little personality left in him. The nightmares though—that’s when he’s most real.

Steve sits at the edge of the bed and strokes the long, brown hair fanned out over the pillow.

His killer whimpers.

“Ssh,” Steve says, rubbing his fingers against his scalp, massaging gently. “You’re alright, sweetheart.”

Wide eyes turn to Steve, so blue, so trusting. Steve smiles kindly at him, fangs tucked in.

“I’ve got you a gift.”

He doesn’t speak often, Steve’s killer. But now, he swallows, and, in a voice hoarse from disuse, asks, “Gift?”

“Mmhm. A man. And maybe, if you’re lucky, a name.”

-

His killer takes one look at the bound man and freezes.

Steve walks deliberately into him and snakes his arm around his killer’s waist when he stumbles. The body against his is so tense that it’ll break at a touch, but Steve pulls him close anyway, nosing along the pale curve of his bruised throat. They’ll fade soon, but that means his body has recovered enough to handle superficial damage, so Steve will just drink from him again. It’s the sweetest cycle.

“Does he scare you?” Steve asks, mouth at his killer’s ear.

There’s no response, but his body language is loud enough on its own.

“It’s alright,” Steve says, kissing a bruise, brushing his lips ever so gently against the warmth of it. “You’re mine. He won’t hurt you.”

There’s nothing about his killer that indicates belief, but Steve lets him go. His killer stays where he is, staring blankly at the man in the chair, who’s awake but dazed, bright eyes flitting around the room without seeing anything. There are many uses to a thrall, and Steve’s had time to find most of them.

He crouches in front of the man.

“What’s your name?”

A long, slow blink.

“Brock Rumlow.”

“Who sent you?”

“Hydra.”

There’s a soft shuffle behind him. Steve looks over his shoulder and finds that his killer has stepped forward a little, eyes still fixed on the bound man. The expression on his face is the most curious blend of fear and relief. There’s a story there.

Steve turns back to Rumlow. He tips his chin up, looks into his eyes, and lets him go.

Rumlow’s will becomes his own with a rough, heaving gasp. He stares, for a moment, wild and uncomprehending, before reality visibly trickles in. He adjusts faster than most do, in a way that speaks of training. Not against thrall because that requires will of an entirely different kind, but the speed with which Rumlow catalogues his surroundings and situation is impressive nonetheless.

Steve’s not even surprised when his eyes find and stay on his killer.

“Soldier,” he snaps.

Behind him, Steve’s killer sucks in a sharp breath.

“That’s not a name,” Steve says. “Is it?”

Rumlow glares balefully at Steve. He’s got the kind of face that might have tempted Steve in a bar, but it’s far more beautiful like this, contorted with fear and fury, all of him distilled into base humanity.

“What’s his name, Brock?”

“Go fuck yourself,” he snarls.

“I’ll pass.”

“Soldier,” is Rumlow’s response. “Finish your fucking mission.”

Steve raises an eyebrow. Behind him, his killer’s breathing picks up, but he doesn’t move. Rumlow doesn’t look very surprised, but it’s ugly, the absolute rage that crosses his face.

“Traitor,” he spits, teeth bared. “When the Secretary gets his hands on you—”

His killer’s heartbeat becomes a thundering pulse.

“Enough,” Steve cuts in, slapping Rumlow across the face. “Answer the question.”

He answers, but it takes Steve a moment to even understand the word. His Russian isn’t the best, but he’s mostly distracted by his killer reacting with a soft, almost inaudible sound, drenched in panic.

_Longing._

More words follow in rapid-fire Russian, and his killer finally moves. Steve whips around to find him stumbling towards the open door with none of his usual, instinctive grace. He doesn’t quite make it before Rumlow snaps out the tenth word with triumph turning his voice into a howl.

_Freight Car._

It’s an interesting sequence of words and nothing that should provoke such a reaction in a human—no, in a _person_. But Steve already figured, didn’t he, that his killer doesn’t have much of that left in him. And now, he looks it too, the handsome lines of his face wiped clean of every expression, eyes blank but not in the happy, half-lidded haze of the thrall. He just looks vacant, like a corpse, a body without a soul.

Steve is very familiar with that.

“Hello, _Soldat_ ,” Rumlow says with obvious relish. “Finish your mission. Kill the leech.”

“Rude,” Steve says mildly, watching his killer advance. It’s beautiful, his steps measured and lethal, not a single movement wasted. It’s similar, too, to the way he came at Steve a week before, all savage grace, silent save for his heavy breathing, skilled fingers wielding knives and garottes before Steve grew too injured to keep playing and too curious to simply kill him.

Steve leads him around the room, grinning when he realizes it’s only his own enhanced speed that’s allowing him to play this delicate game of keep-away.

He could have stopped it, he knows. Broke Rumlow’s jaw before he finished the words. Pulled out his tongue. Crushed his throat. He could even have shoved his killer out of the room, helping him along in his desperate bid for escape. It’s just that he’s always been too curious for his own good and, these days, oddly complacent too.

He grows bored abruptly.

He stops, and his killer almost breaks his nose with a metal fist, but Steve meets his eyes before it can connect. There’s a wall in his killer’s mind, but it only _contains_. It has no defense against an outside force.

“Stop,” Steve says, and the wall shatters. His killer drops like stone. “Ah, sweetheart. They did a number on you, didn’t they?”

His killer’s staring up at Steve with half-closed eyes and the sweetest smile. Steve cups his face, and he nuzzles into it like a great cat, all teeth and deadly beauty.

Rumlow is still speaking, screaming, but Steve doesn’t pay him any mind, far more fascinated with the creature on his knees for him. Steve bends down to press a close-lipped kiss to his killer’s mouth, pleased when he sighs into it.

Pulling back, he says, “Do you want to know your name?”

The answer takes a long time; it always does, with this one. It’s not dissimilar to how the deeply intoxicated act when enthralled, the truths of themselves buried so deep that even their own minds need time to seek it out.

“Yes,” is the final verdict. It doesn’t hold much conviction, but Steve doesn’t mind.

“Alright, sweetheart. Go find it. You can do anything you want. Get some of your knives if you’d like.”

“Okay, Steve.”

Steve rears back, shocked. It’s the first time he’s called Steve by his name. Steve has to kiss him again, dragging his mouth along the smooth line of his jaw. He stops at his ear and pulls back with a gentle bite, a promise of more to come.

His killer shivers.

Rumlow’s quiet and pale.

A few minutes later, he’s screaming.

-

“Barnes,” Rumlow pants, eyes glassy and chin red with blood from his torn lip. “James Barnes. His name’s James Buchanan Barnes.”

“James,” Steve says softly. He lays a hand on his killer’s back and smiles at him when he steps back from Rumlow. “I like that. Do you?”

His killer blinks dazed blue eyes at him. He nods eventually, but it’s accompanied by a shrugging motion that says he doesn’t really care what he’s called. Steve does though. He can’t keep on thinking of the man as his killer, least of all when he didn’t even succeed at the task. He’d have chosen a name for him eventually, but this is better. It’s always better to stick to your own name. And James is nice—a little bland, but then, so is Steve.

“Would you like to do the honors, James, or shall I?” Steve asks him, savoring the shape of that name in his mouth.

James gives him an unreadable glance and says nothing. He’s a bit of a mess, face speckled with Rumlow’s blood, hair pulled back into a loose bun. It’s all very lovely, James a creature of effortless beauty.

“No need to sully yourself further,” Steve tells him, reaching over to tug at a stray strand of dark hair. “Let me.”

He doesn’t drink from Rumlow. He’s flushed and strong from James’s blood, and for all that the hunger is an incessant ache in his gut, Steve is curiously uninterested in this man.

Rumlow, to his credit, doesn’t beg. But his eyes are quick to lose what’s left of their fire when Steve cuts his throat and lets him bleed.

He can feel James’s warmth at his back, can hear the steady beat of his heart, but the man is as silent as a ghost. It’s the sort of silence that doesn’t come naturally to any human, but James wears it like he knows nothing else. Steve has pieces of a puzzle, and the picture they form is blurred, fragmented, but that’s all he needs to know that what was done to James was as unnatural as the bite that stripped Steve of his humanity.

Steve turns around and meets those bright blue eyes, and it’s Sam he thinks of—Sam, with his crooked smiles, who let Steve draw him in like the fire attracts the moth. His beauty lay in his humanity, but when Steve realized that, it was far too late and the sly sweetness of Sam’s smiles was lost to the chill of his skin.

He wonders what James was like, before. And he wonders what he will be like if Steve slit open his own vein and pressed a blood-drenched kiss to his lips.

He reaches for James, who tilts his head easily into Steve’s palm, eyes fluttering shut. Steve steps closer, suddenly enveloped in the heat James radiates. He presses his mouth to James’s pulse to drink him in, lips parting to taste the warm skin. He drags his mouth up James’s throat, finds the blood spotting the sharp curve of his jaw.

Rumlow’s taste doesn’t even compare to the richness of James’s blood. But Steve licks it up anyway, sucking at every patch of stained skin until no dot of red is left on James’s face. He smiles, pleased, and lets it widen into a smirk when he finds James staring glassy-eyed at him, a flush riding high on his cheeks.

Steve leans in, James tips his throat back, and when Steve only kisses his throat instead of biting down, he doesn’t cry out or whine, just trembles in spot like the sweetest little thing.

Steve steps away and surveys James from head to toe—there’s more blood on his torso, in thick streaks as opposed to the scattered drops on his face. Steve’s sure that Rumlow would have died from blood loss even if Steve hadn’t slit his throat.

James is sweating too, skin gleaming over taut muscles. Steve wants to bite him all over, leave a thousand marks.

“Come,” he tells James. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

James takes his hand and quietly lets Steve tug him to the bathroom. He hesitates only at the doorway to look back at Rumlow’s corpse with a faint furrow between his brows.

“Don’t mind him,” Steve says, answering a concern that James will never voice. “I’ll take care of him later.”

That’s all the assurance James needs to place himself on Steve’s hands once more. And that’s what fascinates Steve the most. Because this isn’t the thrall; Steve let go of his mind when he started in on Rumlow, but James barely faltered before continuing. Steve’s used to human minds that fight him at first chance and then keep fighting until they break. It’s the way they’re built. James’s sweet submission is refreshingly new.

Maybe it’s just that Steve’s not used to being the kinder option. He was never that to Sam and certainly not to Peggy. He does wonder what Hydra, whoever or whatever that is, did to James to craft him into what he is now. He’s content, though, to just keep James, and if they try to take him away again, well, Steve will show them why even shifters are wary of a vampire’s claim.

James is pliant in the shower, letting Steve soap him up and scrub him clean. There’s not much grime on him, just sweat, but his hair turns oily too fast. Steve likes working on it, seating James on the toilet while Steve works the shampoo into wet clumps of hair. It’s one of the few times James isn’t deathly silent, throat vibrating with a noise that’s the closest human approximation of a cat’s purr.

After the shower, Steve pins James to the wet tile of the closest wall and stares at what’s left of the bruises on his neck. They’re almost gone, the color an uneven yellow. Steve should probably wait a little longer, but James’s breath hitches and he’s staring with dark eyes at Steve’s mouth, and it wouldn’t hurt, would it, to indulge?

James greets his teeth with a bitten-off whine. Steve’s louder in his pleasure, holding James’s quivering body close to his and moaning at the piercing heat that floods his mouth. James’s taste is never less of a shock, his blood rich and sharp like nothing that has ever touched Steve’s tongue, and maybe James is helplessly addicted to the sting of Steve’s teeth, but Steve is just as gone on the life in his veins.

He pulls back earlier than he usually does, panting as every instinct begs him to sink his fangs into James’s warm, inviting flesh and take and take and _take_ until the pulse under his tongue shudders and stops. But Steve’s centuries away from a fledgling’s mindless need, and it’s only a moment’s thought to make his teeth lose their razor-sharp length.

He presses a kiss to a fresh bruise and pulls back.

James, he finds, is hard.

He always is during a feeding. It lasts a while after, too, his body slow to relinquish the high. It’s the same with every human. Sex makes the feeding easy, and Steve doesn’t know whether vampires were made this way or whether they evolved into it, but blending orgasmic pleasure of the bite is as instinctive an urge as the need to feed.

Steve hasn’t done anything about it until now. These days, he usually seeks sexual partners in other creatures. Humans tend to be too fragile, their bodies soft and easily broken. But James is anything but fragile.

Steve runs his hands down James’s sides, palms sliding easily down wet skin. James doesn’t react, not even when Steve grabs hold of his hips with clear intent. If he registers his own need, he doesn’t show it, staring half-lidded at Steve with that soft, dazed look. He sighs when Steve kisses him but doesn’t chase his lips, and when Steve slides both hands between his thighs, both as a test and a tease, James doesn’t react beyond a sharp breath. Steve scrapes his nails against the sensitive skin of James’s inner thighs and drags them up, climbing leisurely towards his prize.

James’s breathing picks up, but he remains languid and fang-drunk, all of him easy and inviting.

Steve wraps a hand around his cock.

James finally reacts, and oh, it’s lovely. His eyes widen in shock and his whole body sways forward, but Steve pins him back against the wall with his free hand, tightening his grip on James’s dick with the other. James gasps, the sound hushed like he tried and failed to swallow it down.

Steve strokes him, and three seconds in, he’s cursing himself for not doing this earlier because James is achingly pretty in his pleasure; it’s not the hazy surrender he offers when bitten but a sharper, keener response to Steve’s touch. He’s still quiet, not entirely though he tries to be, noises escaping past gritted teeth and bitten lips. Steve strokes him harder just to break that composure, tries tricks with more patience than he’s bothered with in a while. And James never breaks, works so _hard_ not to break, shaking and panting against the wall, blue eyes dark with want and fixed on Steve’s.

Steve twists his fist around the head, slides the foreskin back to rub over the sensitive head, grips tight around the base, scrapes a nail none too gently down the underside, and through it all, James trembles, whimpers escaping in those sweet seconds where his petrified restraint fails. He flinches every time he makes a noise, and the air is thick with the mingled scent of fear and desire. Steve takes deep, greedy drags of it, leaning in to trail his nose up the taut stretch of James’s throat, lips lingering on the mark his bite left.

James whines at that, high and helpless, arching his throat, cock gushing precome against Steve’s palm. Steve stifles laughter in James’s throat, kissing instead of biting because if he takes any more, James will pass out and Steve really wants to feel him come.

“You’re sweet,” Steve tells him, kissing up his throat, tugging at his ear. James whimpers, shaking harder. “Ssh. It’s alright. I’ve got you.”

Those aren’t particularly reassuring words, coming from a vampire, and James doesn’t lose his tension or his desperate silence. His cock’s as eager as ever, pulsing in Steve’s grip, the whole length of it slick with precome. He’s close, Steve can tell, and he thinks that if he set his teeth to James’s throat and gave him a teasing bite, he’ll come, just like that. But he doesn’t, pulling back to watch his hand work James over. It’s a pretty sight, James’s cock flushed a violent red and wet all over.

Steve licks his lips and picks up his pace, grinning at the soft cry that flutters in James’s throat.

He doesn’t last long after that, giving it up with an aborted twitch of his hips. There’s a lot of it, come drenching Steve’s hand as James gasps and shudders through his orgasm.

“It’s been a while, hm?”

James doesn’t respond. When Steve looks at him, James has his eyes closed and head tilted back. His expression is more pained than blissed, and when Steve gives one last stroke to the soft length in his grasp, James lets out a sobbing breath.

Steve shushes him gently, letting James go. His cock lies limp against one thigh, strangely vulnerable. The sight of it makes Steve feel oddly tender, and so does James, slumped against the wall and shaking from the aftershocks.

Steve takes him by the shoulders and James drops to his knees almost gratefully.

Blue eyes peer up at Steve, an unreadable emotion in them. Steve brushes his knuckles across James’s cheeks and drags them down his throat, pressing his fist lightly against James’s pounding pulse.

“James.”

Steve gives him time. James swallows once, then again, before he lowers his eyes and bites his lips, and mumbles an acknowledgement.

“Yes.”

“If you don’t like the name, sweetheart, we can find you another.”

James is surprisingly quick to shake his head.

“No?” Steve prods.

This time, James’s response is even slower, but Steve can be patient. The heavy heat between his own legs screams otherwise, but denial has its own sweet thrill.

“It—it’s right,” James ventures after a long moment. “The name. It’s mine. Even if I don’t…”

He trails off and doesn’t speak again, but Steve understands. He’s been clinging to _Steven_ for centuries, a constant even as he wore and discarded a hundred aliases. Most of them do. Names, given or chosen, both or neither, have their own power, and you don’t need to be fae to feel that.

“You’ll grow into it,” Steve tells him, tugging gently at his hair to get him to look up again. “You’re only half a mind now.”

Even that’s a generous statement. James doesn’t seem to take offence, though it’s hard to tell when even the mild animation his face held earlier has vanished into his customary blank stare. He’s as pliant as ever, lips parting for Steve’s thumb and mouth dropping open when he tugs it down.

“Relax for me,” Steve says, the warning undercut by the cock he’s already pushing into James’s mouth. He listens all the same, wide eyes the only sign of his shock. Steve sucks in an unnecessary breath as the heat of James’s mouth shudders up his cock. It shocks him sometimes, even now, how _hot_ humans are, and James seems to run at a temperature greater than the average, skin warm enough to feel like it’s burning Steve’s corpse-cold flesh.

He slams the hand not cradling James’s jaw against the wall. Cracks spread along white tiles, small flakes of it falling on James’s hair, undoing the good work Steve did in the shower.

Steve focuses on that, a distraction so he won’t let the warm, wet mouth around his cock drive him over the edge. He wants to savor this.

James, he finds, is peering up at Steve, eyes wide and innocent. He seems surprised even now, and for all that there’s no fight in him, he gives the impression of a small, skittish thing that should be soothed lest it flee. Steve strokes his cheeks, his hair, and traces a finger over James’s lips, enjoying the taut stretch of them around Steve’s cock. It’s only halfway in. There’s spit pooling in James’s mouth, and Steve can feel it when he struggles to swallow around his dick.

He tilts his hips, slides in deeper, and James chokes, body jolting with the most feeling he’s displayed since this started, but he stays in place, whimpering quietly around Steve.

“It’s alright,” Steve promises, “I’ll be gentle.”

It’s a wonder that James doesn’t even react to the glowing red eyes or the fangs, clear signs of Steve’s waning control. He won’t last long, and he won’t be gentle. It’s not clear whether James trusts his promise, but when Steve pushes in deeper, James just takes it, whining quietly. He’s got no skill, no technique, but he keeps his teeth away and tongue flat, and all Steve needs is a wet mouth. He loses himself in the heat of it, closing his eyes and further splintering the tile as he chases his pleasure.

He comes with a soft cry, fist clenched in James’s hair. James just makes a confused noise when Steve’s cock starts to soften in his mouth, but he sucks in deep, gulping breaths when Steve pulls out, his dick soft and wet with saliva.

Steve drops to his knees and takes James’s face between his hands, tilting it up for a better view. It’s a pity his body has no semen to give because James would have looked nice with it dripping down his face, the prettiest mess Steve has ever seen. He’s not far off it now, lips red and swollen, eyes bright and lashes wet with unshed tears. He lets Steve stroke his face and prod at his warm lips, watching him all the while with wide, stricken eyes. Between his legs, James’s cock is hard again, and when Steve reaches down to take hold of it, James shudders violently.

“Ssh,” Steve says, drawing James forward, gently pressing his face to the crook of Steve’s neck. “I’ve got you.”

Steve starts stroking. James shakes quietly.

-

Leaving is easy. It’s less that Steve doesn’t put down roots and more that the ones he does are easily severed. It’s barely half a day of work, and then he and James are on the way, leaving behind the house in which they met.

At the first motel they check in to, Steve emerges from the shower with black dye staining his towel and finds James looking out the window, as still as a statue. Steve leans on the wall and watches him, but if James notices—and he must since most of senses are as keen as Steve’s—he doesn’t react.

An hour crawls by with James lost in his head and Steve lost in the sight of him.

But he was never a patient creature, and age hasn’t improved it much. James doesn’t start when Steve presses cold hands against his back. There’s tension in his frame, but that’s never not the case. Steve runs his hands through the freshly sheared strands of James’s hair and presses a kiss to his exposed nape. With his chest flush to James’s back, it’s impossible to miss the shiver that runs through his frame.

“I liked your hair,” Steve says mournfully, not for the first time. “But this suits you too. You’re terribly pretty, James.”

James doesn’t react to the compliment either, but the tips of his ears turn pink. Steve nips at one, throwing his arms around James’s waist to hold him closer, tighter. James squirms but only for a moment, going limp in Steve’s arms the next second. It’s interesting, the resigned edge that’s there to everything he does. Steve knows he didn’t cause it. James came to him broken.

That’s the appeal about humans—the fire and the fragility.

They sink into silence until, surprisingly, James speaks.

“It’s familiar.”

Steve waits but nothing seems forthcoming. James is stiff in his arms, even the stoic ease of earlier vanishing.

“What is familiar, James?”

James makes a low noise but doesn’t answer. Steve waits, idly stroking the hard plane of James’s belly and nuzzling into his neck. He’s not in any hurry for the answer, and it’s sweet as anything to distract himself with the taste and the feel of James’s skin. The drive here kept them on their respective seats, and apparently, the last few days have aroused a skin-hunger in Steve that’s almost as intense as his bloodlust. He spent hours with one hand on the wheel and another on James’s denim-clad thigh, aching for the warmth that lay just under.

Steve hasn’t touched a human like this in a very long time. It has been either the meaningless interactions of the everyday or the deliberate but just as perfunctory ones of feeding. James is the first, since Peggy.

He wonders what Sam would say. Something scathing, probably. Steve should call him soon.

James stirs in his arms, a minute shift of his body. He speaks a moment later.

“My hair,” he says. “It’s familiar.”

Steve can’t say he was expecting that. He pulls back and runs his fingers through the short, tousled strands. Now that the grime and what feels like a century of neglect has been washed and cut off, it’s soft and pleasant to touch. Steve wasn’t happy about taking scissors to it so mercilessly, but there’s no denying that James now looks considerably different than he used to. It likely won’t make much of a difference to his old masters, but it’s an advantage all the same.

“Do you like it?” Steve asks. “The familiarity.”

James’s answer comes quicker than usual.

“I don’t know.”

“Hmm.”

The window shows their pale reflections, marred by dirt and transposed over the darkness outside. Steve rests his chin on James’s shoulder, watching himself do it. They match a little, with their blue eyes and dark hair. Steve in his natural coloring would contrast interestingly with James.

“You know what I am, don’t you, James?”

“Vampire,” comes the answer, after a pause. “It was in the briefing.”

“I’d hope so. I used to be this weed of a kid. Five feet and more spite than sense. Sick and alone. Would never have made it past thirty. The bite changes us. Our bodies become the strongest they can be, an artificial, perpetual prime. Our minds change. We shed our human skins, and now, it’s like that kid never existed. If I met him, I wouldn’t know him. I’d horrify him.”

James listens, face blank, eyes staring straight ahead. His expression would read as disinterest on anyone else, but Steve can feel the weight of his focus. And when Steve slides his hand down James’s left arm to tangle his fingers with cool metal, James resists for a second before letting Steve raise their arms.

“You’re as changed as I am, James. You were human once, I can tell. You’re not anymore. A little more than me, sure, but not by much. And you can’t go back, can you?”

There’s a crack in the hard lines of James’s face. He shakes his head.

Steve presses their entwined fingers to the window, his fingers slotting neatly between James’s, pale skin pressed to the patterns engraved on metal.

“No future lies in memories. The past is seductive, but there are only fossils there. We live, James.”

Steve spins him around, and James barely stumbles even as the tension in his body ratchets up. He watches Steve warily, the way he does when his mind is least affected by the thrall.

“I can make it a more pleasant life than they did.”

He doesn’t watch James’s expression change, leaning down to press his mouth to the hollow of his throat, tongue flicking out against his pulse. Steve mouths his way to the juncture of James’s neck and shoulder, smothering a grin in his skin when James’s muscles stiffen for different reasons.

Steve’s teeth graze skin, and James arches his throat, a silent invitation.

“You want it?”

There’s no answer, for all that James’s breaths get harsher with every moment.

“Tell me, James.”

Nothing.

Steve pulls back, eyes flashing red, and a tremor runs through James the instant their eyes meet, but as always, there’s no resistance, just dark crevices in his mind for Steve to fill.

“Do you want my teeth, James?”

“Yes.”

James is smiling, soft and dazed, as sweet as his eyes are vacant. Steve is startled to find that he prefers James as he is outside of the thrall, his terror wrapped in a thin layer of cold restraint. It’s not that this pliant version of him in entirely without appeal, but enthralled humans are all the same in their submission. It’s outside of it, shaking off the cobwebs in their mind, that they’re radiant. That’s what Steve aches to possess.

“And why won’t you tell me that, James?”

“I’m not allowed to,” James says easily. “The Soldier does not want.”

“I see.” Steve curls his hand lightly around James’s neck, thumb pressed to his pulse. “That doesn’t matter now. You’re not theirs anymore, James. I stole you, remember?”

James blinks, an almost-frown crossing his face. There’s a disturbance in his mind, and it’s not exactly like the wall that rose to meet Steve when Rumlow uttered those words but there’s a similar aura strangeness, of _un_ belonging, to it. James isn’t the one trying, albeit weakly, to fight Steve.

“You’re _mine_ ,” Steve says more forcefully, hand tightening on James’s throat.

“Yes,” James gasps, eyes fluttering shut. His chest heaves with deep breaths. “I want—”

He doesn’t finish that sentence, but Steve has heard enough. He darts in, sinks his teeth deep, and James’s body sparks to life with a violent shudder. Arms come around Steve’s shoulder, nails digging into the bare skin.

Heat floods his mouth and spreads through his veins.

When Steve opens his eyes, he only sees the red haze of his own reflection.

-

It’s not quite a life on the run. There are no high stakes; they run into one more group of black-clad agents spewing stilted Russian, but Steve kills the one speaking before he can get past _Longing_ , and James makes quick work of the rest.

He’s brutal and efficient, and Steve steps back to just watch him tear through the humans like a knife through butter.

After, he looks up at Steve, teeth bared and eyes dark, and there’s danger in that glare, a very real threat of that violence being turned on Steve, who survived it once and knows he can again. James is not the worst that has tried to end him in his long, damned life.

“James,” Steve says softly, smiling without teeth.

James stares at him for a long time.

He looks away eventually, and without his hair to hide his face, Steve can see the grimace that twists his mouth. He doesn’t linger on the meaning behind it. Maybe he regrets not turning on Steve, or maybe he can’t bear the thought of it. Eventually, he will decide, and he will act one way or the other, just as Peggy did.

Steve does hope the choice will be different this time.

-

Steve draws the black-out curtains and turns around to find James in the doorway, frowning intently at Steve.

“Step inside and close the door,” Steve tells him. “It’s almost dawn.”

James obeys, and the room plunges into familiar darkness. Steve can see well enough, and though he hasn’t asked, he thinks James can as well. He certainly moves as if the dark is no hinderance. Steve waits to see what he’ll do, but James seems content standing quietly in the middle of the room.

Steve makes his way to the bed, intent on the cozy blanket nest he’s made for himself. It’s good to have a stable home again; they spent the last few weeks driving through the night and spending the day in shady motels, and while that sort of adventure always has its own charm, Steve always feels safer when he can while away the daylight hours in his own territory.

“Feel free to join me,” he tells James, stretching out an arm invitingly in his direction. “Keep me warm.”

He’s only a little surprised when James does just that. If he were not quite so…James-like, Steve would say that he’s eager to please. As it is, Steve just suspects James isn’t very sure what’s an order and what’s Steve spewing shit and has decided to err on the side of caution. Steve’s not complaining, especially when there’s suddenly a furnace pressed up against him, both firm and yielding.

He wears James like a blanket, stroking a hand down his back until James’s muscles let go of their tension almost unwittingly.

He almost drifts off, into that quiet haze that’s the closest approximation of sleep he can manage. Steve likes it, it’s relaxing, and James’s presence in his nest makes it even more comfortable than usual.

And then James speaks.

“You were supposed to be asleep.”

“What?”

“The files said you slept through the day. That the sun put you under. I was told you kill you at noon.”

“Huh. I can see why. It’s one of the most enduring myths about my kind.”

“Myth,” James repeats, a novel note of curiosity in his voice.

“I’m not going waltzing in the sun any time soon. But I don’t drop like a stone when it rises either. And I won’t conveniently burst into fire if a stray sunbeam touches me. But you know that, don’t you?”

James doesn’t say anything. His breath falls warm on Steve’s skin, oddly pleasant. Human or not, he’s alive in a way Steve barely remembers. It’s heady, having all that life to himself.

“I’m glad they sent you, James,” Steve says, starting to drift again, fingernails idly trailing down James’s spine. “I’m glad I didn’t kill you.”

“Why didn’t you?” he hears James ask, quiet and hushed.

“I don’t know. There’s just something about you.”

James is silent. His heart beats strong and steady over Steve’s cold, still chest.

-

Steve comes home after late-night grocery shopping to find James frozen in front of the TV, staring at the news with wide eyes and a slack jaw. On the screen, a building is burning.

 _The Triskelion_ , says the flashing headlines. _S.H.I.E.L.D Headquarters_.

Steve knows S.H.I.E.L.D. Peggy’s vision. She wanted to be a shield around the world, and Steve believed in her, both when she loved him and later, when that love turned to betrayed rage.

He goes to put the food away. James needs a lot of sustenance, and Steve takes care to keep him fed and healthy.

When he returns, there’s a woman on the screen, talking frantically and gesturing at the scene behind her. The building is still smoking.

Beside him, James is barely breathing.

When Steve touches him, he flinches. He resists the touch that tries to turn his face away from the screen but only for a moment. He blinks at Steve, eyes bright with a wild light.

“Hydra,” he gasps. “They’re gone.”

Steve looks at the screen one last time. He understands.

He smiles at James and strokes his face, patting his hollow cheek.

“That’s wonderful news.”

James seems dazed but for once, it’s not Steve enthralling him. But he doesn’t protest when Steve turns off the TV. He barely even seems to notice, staring at the now-blank screen with the same intensity as before, a million miles away.

Steve doesn’t like that.

He leads James to the couch and pushes him down on it. James goes easily, folding under the touch. He’s nearly naked, dressed only in boxers that Steve tears off with an absent tug. James blinks as he’s exposed, his stare more focused now, intent on Steve’s teeth. Steve grins wider, fangs digging into his lower lip, and feels more than sees the shudder that runs through James.

“Tell me,” he says, kissing the hollow of James’s throat.

“Please,” comes the response, practiced and prompt. “I want it.”

“Want what, James?”

James’s eyes are nearly dark, their beautiful blue eaten by the black of his pupils. He’s painfully pretty.

“Bite me,” James says, arching his neck, flushed and eager, and _this_ , James undone with just a touch—this is the only power Steve craves. He does bite, fangs retracting before his teeth meet skin, and the sound James makes is soft and mournful.

“Patience,” Steve says, running his hand down James’s body, over his flat belly and his swelling cock. “I’ll give you what you need.”

But not just yet.

It’s cruel, the way he teases James, lips and teeth pressed to his throat as Steve strokes him to hardness. James pants under him, trembling, hips still even as his cock drools in Steve’s grip. He’s less controlled when Steve slips too-dry fingers into him, and brutal shudders wrack his body when Steve kneels between his legs to set his teeth to the seductive warmth of his thigh.

He bites deep and takes his fill to the sound of James’s scream, and when he’s done, he wraps his blood-wet mouth around James’s cock and works him over until he comes with a stifled whimper.

And he’s easy, after, to slip into, lying under Steve with glazed eyes and loose limbs. He cries out like he’s dying when Steve breaches him, and then again, louder and sharper, when he bottoms out in a quick, dirty slide. He’s hot and _tight_ , body a merciless vice around Steve’s cock. Steve wants to break him open and drink his heat, wants to run like wildfire through his blood and creep through the bleach-white of his bones. He wants to possess James in every way that matters.

Steve’s love has always been poison.

“You can’t leave,” he tells James, whispering the words in between brutal, claiming thrusts. “Hydra can burn, James, but you’re _mine_.”

James says nothing, he can’t, mouth open on an endless stream of keening cries, Steve’s name mangled on his tongue. He’s jolting with every stroke of Steve’s cock, whole body jerking electric, and there’s no one behind those summer-blue eyes to hear Steve stake his claim, all of James lost to the roiling heat of his body. So Steve speaks to him with hands and mouth and cock, fucking him deep, scoring hot trails down his sides, sucking bruises up the curve of his neck.

He bites down when he comes, cock shuddering inside James, softening even as Steve’s filled with his lifeblood. He takes and he takes, rough and greedy, drinking until James’s whimpers become shaky breaths and the beat of his heart stutters.

Once, Steve kept going. He pinned a man he loved to a wall and drank him down till he hung limp and slit his own wrist to breathe a new life into him. The Sam that opened his eyes wasn’t the same, and he never forgave Steve his presumption.

Steve swipes his tongue over the bite, lapping up the blood as James’s skin knits back together.

James has his eyes closed. He’s too pale, but he’s breathing and his heart is beating. Steve presses his palm to his chest, proof of a life that’s neither human nor monstrous but something exquisitely in-between.

He lifts James into his arms. He’s strangely small like this, listless and quiet.

Beautiful. Vulnerable.

Steve would do terrible things for him, to him.

And James, he thinks, will let him.

-

James wakes, as he always does.

Steve feeds him, lifting pieces of meat and fruit and cheese to plush pink lips, watching hungrily as they part for each offering. James licks at Steve’s fingers when they withdraw, kittenish flicks of his tongue that makes warmth pool in Steve’s gut.

When he’s had enough, James turns his face away, one hand covering his belly as if protecting it. Steve chuckles but stops, putting the platter aside to lie down beside James, head propped up on his hand to better watch him. James is half-asleep, or at least not all here, likely still reeling from how much Steve drained him. It would have killed a normal human, left them close to empty, but to James, it might as well be a temporary bout of anemia.

He runs his fingers through James’s tousled hair, gripping lightly at the short strands. James blinks up at him, eyes fluttering shut when Steve starts caressing his face.

“James,” Steve calls, waiting until James opens his eyes a slit. “You’ll stay with me, won’t you, darling?”

It’s an endearment he picked up from Peggy and never used on any other, until James. It feels right, now, all the toxic tenderness inside Steve spilling over into those saccharine syllables.

James hums, and Steve thinks he hears agreement, but it’s not enough.

“Tell me,” he says, keeping his voice gentle even as his fingers dig briefly into James’s cheek. “Use your words, James. I want to hear you.”

James only looks tired and perplexed. There’s no fear, no caution, none of the terrible knowledge that with the Avengers now hunting Hydra, James is safe from them even without Steve.

“I’ll stay,” James says, soft and exhausted. “I’m yours. You said you stole me.”

Steve kisses him, over both eyes, on his cheeks, along the stubbled line of his jaw and finally, on the mouth, lingering over the supple warmth of his lips. They pucker half-heartedly against Steve’s, but it’s clear James is too exhausted to reciprocate anything and content, as he often is, to lie there and let Steve do as he pleases. That suits Steve just fine, and he spends a good five minutes with his lips on James’s face and throat, kissing him sweetly, with a tenderness he hasn’t felt the need to indulge in for decades.

When he pulls back, James is smiling faintly and on the verge of sleep, holding his eyes open with visible effort.

“Sleep,” Steve says, curling around James, shifting him so that he’s held securely against Steve’s body. “I’ll watch over you.”

James mumbles something, too quiet and mangled for Steve to hear. He slips easily into a healing sleep. Steve closes his eyes and imagines he can hear James’s body fixing itself, flushing his veins with blood and easing his aches. Eventually, even his bruises will fade, turning him into a fresh canvas for Steve to ruin.

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you think <3

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [collab: voxofthevoid](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23361448) by [kocuria-visuals (kocuria)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kocuria/pseuds/kocuria-visuals)




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